


Capitolare

by merigold



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sappy, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7071151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merigold/pseuds/merigold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Italy's sick. Germany comes to help. Things don't go according to plan. </p><p>Alternatively: North Italy doesn't have a monopoly on surrender. Spamano (main), Gerita.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capitolare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hudebuc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hudebuc/gifts).



> This story has been on my desktop as "sickgaycountries.rtf" since 2010. Finally completed June 2016.
> 
> Mild edits 6/24/16

Capitolare

_to give (oneself) up, to submit, to yield, to capitulate_

* * *

 

Germany comes fully armed. Neatly arranged in a green leather case are a digital thermometer, a strong analgesic, antiseptic, tissues, lozenges, a hardcover book entitled "Flu: Treatment & Care," and, most importantly, a Plan of Action. Planning is key to an operation's success. First, locate and identify the problem, analyze why that problem exists, and mitigate the damage. A systematic and rational approach.

That’s probably why the plans never really work out, in the end. Systematic, rational thinking seems to bounce away and morph to chaos when exposed to the Italian brothers.

Germany sticks to the plan. Step one: Locate Italy. Steeling himself, (because deep down he knows, he really knows, that this will not go smoothly) he knocks, three solid raps on the shiny wooden door.

He and Italy had planned to meet for lunch. It was to be at a fancy place, with expensive, ridiculous pasta, and it had taken days of convincing (okay, maybe hours) before Germany had given in and agreed to go (and pick him up, and pay). Therefore, when Italy had called in the late morning and said, in a voice that sounded a little hoarse, that he wouldn't be able to make it to lunch today (wouldn't be able to make it to PASTA today), he knew that something was definitely wrong. A little more talking illuminated the other symptoms (sore throat, so sleepy, no desire for pasta), so he had gathered his supplies, formulated his plans, and headed out.

The door opens with a sudden jerk, and Germany holds firm as an irritated Italian glares up at him. Not the right Italian. It had been a fifty-fifty chance...

"God damn it, what the hell do you want?"

"Hello, Romano." He clears his throat.

"We're busy." Romano yanks the door shut, and Germany, who has been half-expecting this, winces a bit as it hits the side of his reinforced boot.

Germany reaches out quickly to grab the brass doorknob and keep the door open, because it looks like Romano is considering slamming it on his foot a few more times to make him go away. The older Italian seems, if it is actually possible, to be more irritated than usual.

"Didn't you hear me, you bastard? We're _busy_. I am _cooking_. I don't need your bullshit right now."

"I'm here for Veneziano." He says, holding up his bag of provisions a bit like a shield, feeling his hackles raise. Romano is so difficult. It would not do to get derailed by the Italian brothers' chaos before he even enters the door.

"He doesn't need your bullshit right now either! Go home and take your fucking bag of potatoes with you." South Italy's cheeks are flushed red with anger. What a bad mood he is in today.

"Is your cooking supposed to involve so much smoke?" Germany asks, attempting a distraction, gesturing at the decidedly gray clouds of the stuff beginning to waft out of the kitchen door and into the hallway behind Romano.

“ _Fuck_.“ Romano hurries away, socked feet still managing to stomp a bit down the hallway towards the culinary situation. "Don't tramp your dirty, stupid boots all over the house, at least!" he calls over his shoulder, and that's as much invitation from Romano as he is probably going to get. Germany steps through the entrance, closes the door, and takes off and neatly arranges his sturdy boots against the entrance wall.

All right. Continuing with step one: Locate Italy.

This part should be easy enough. He knows where the younger Italy's bedroom is, and walks with purpose upstairs towards it. The thermometer first, then, and that information will help inform treatment. It's a new, digital device, simple in that it needs only to be held in the ear briefly to give accurate results. He is already pulling the tool out as he enters Italy's room.

Cheeks flushed, tucked up in a pile of fluffy white sheets, even Italy's curl is drooping. It is a sad sight. The tiny furrow between his brows eases away, though, as their eyes meet and he breaks out into a very wide, dazzling smile. "Germany!"

Germany considers his own temperature, which, if checked right now, would certainly show a rise upon exposure to that smile. It is a pleasant warmth.

"Ve~ I'm so glad you're here, Germany! I wanted to meet you for lunch, I really did, I'm sorry! My brother just wouldn't let me leave, even though I'm not that sick."

"You are clearly ill," he says, "and Romano was right to keep you home." He sits down on the soft white bed, thermometer in hand. Soft smudges of blue are showing beneath the Italian’s tired eyes.

Italy continues on as Germany brushes a lock of hair away from his ear and inserts the thermometer. "I tried to tell him I was all right, but now he's cooking something downstairs, and I'm not hungry at all, really, he doesn't like to listen-"

38.2C, the device announces with a chime. Right, antipyretic then. He nods to Italy's continued chatter, distracted.

"I'm going to get you a glass of water to take these pills. Your fever isn't worryingly high," he says in a pause, "I'll be right back."

"Thank you, Germany," Italy smiles again, then adds, in a concerned tone, brows knitted, "Can you see how Romano's doing, too?"

"I'm sure that he can handle whatever he is cooking on his own." Probably pasta.

"Probably, if it was just cooking, but no, he's a lot sicker than I am, didn't you see?" It was certainly news to Germany. "I haven't seen him so sick since we were tiny! He hates being sick, you know. Maybe you could you check his temperature too?"

Germany pictures himself tucking Romano’s hair behind his ear, pressing a thermometer in close… the loud yelling, lots of pots and pans to be thrown… no.

Romano had seemed fine when he answered the door. Mad, loud, foul-mouthed and healthy. The way he slammed the door was unusually strong too, he thinks, absently rubbing his foot.

But, he can't say no, not really. Italy really loves his mouthy brother, and Germany understands about brothers.

"All right," he assents, with a bit of a sigh, resigned, "I'll try." If I can get close enough... there are so many things for him to throw in the kitchen.

* * *

 

The kitchen, as he enters and scopes out the area, is quite a mess, with no Romano to be seen. Vaguely smoky still, with the remains of some messy, charred, tomato-y goop in a pan on the stove. Germany inspects it with distaste. It does not look edible to the German, but then, not all Italian food does. He carefully fills a glass with cold water, brings it to his Italy (“Ve~ thank you so much, Germany!"), then comes downstairs again, resigned, armed with a thermometer, to search for the older Italian.

God help him.

Romano is in the kitchen again when he returns, scrubbing and swearing alternately at the failed tomato dish that had been on the stove. Probably due to the sound of the water and his own cursing, Romano has yet to notice him enter, so Germany takes this opportunity to look for the signs of this illness Italy insists is there.

There isn't much. He looks normal, angry and bad-tempered. The opposite of Italy, who, though often incredibly trying, is good-natured down to his core.

All right. Visible symptoms?

Upon further inspection, Germany concedes, the older Italian does look a bit flushed, perhaps. His cheeks are red, like Italy’s are now.

His voice, currently cursing ineffective scrub-brushes, might sound a bit hoarse, too. Perhaps from all the bitching, the German considers.

He had attributed those signs previously to the general aura of irritation the Italian seems to emanate, but now that he is studying the shorter man for signs of illness, he notices a few more. The Italian's eyes seem to be squinting, perhaps simply in an angry glare, and the green curtains of the window above the sink are pulled tight, shutting out the sunny day.

Romano puts the pot back down in the sink, a disgusted look on his face. His head tilts, and the fall of hair obscures his face briefly.

Germany is again struck by the disquieting resemblance between the brothers. Temperament aside, they are so very close to twins.

He begins to consider that Italy may have been right after all. Possibly. But how was one to tell with Romano between anger and a fever? He was always so fiery.  

Germany clears his throat. Three things happen.

Romano spins around to face him, jostling a few stacked dishes on the counter that slide, loudly, into the other dishes in the sink.

The quick turn seems to unbalance the older Italian, whose socked feet slide on the kitchen tile. He falls, hard, landing solidly on his bottom with a thunk.

The Italian looks up at Germany, takes a deep breath, presumably to yell, and begins to cough, dryly.

Damn. He is ill then. Ill and spectacularly clumsy.  

"Um," he clears his throat.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He has his breath back now, but it definitely sounds more hoarse.

The Plan can be modified. Step one, locate Romano, complete. Step two, determine if he is ill… sources point to yes, but he should probably take Romano's temperature as well (although that could prove challenging).

Plan of action, plan of action... oh. Of course.

He reaches in his pocket for his cellphone, scrolls down to a seldom-used number, and presses _call_.

"What are you doing now, huh?" Romano continues, "Don't you know it's fucking rude to use your cellphone when you're fucking talking to someone?” Normally, the Italian would be up and yelling this in his face, but right now it seemed he wouldn't (or couldn't) move from the kitchen floor. Germany backs up out of reach, as a precaution.

The phone rings once, twice. "Spain. Hello." he says in response to the other country's relaxed greeting. "It's about Romano."

This causes Romano to start, to try to stand. "Don't! Everything is fine!"

Everything clearly isn't. Romano's clumsiness is apparent again as he makes an attempt to get up and crashes the back of his skull against the hard counter. He presses his hands to the back of his head and thuds loudly back to the floor. "Fuck!"

“I am visiting Italy right now. It appears they are both quite ill," Germany informs Spain, then hesitates. How to put it…? He considers it his duty to keep Italy healthy, and Romano by extension. However…

"Ahh, is that so?" Spain's relaxed voice comes in, before he has to say more. “I'll be there soon."

"Understood." Germany feels relief, and a little chagrin. Had reinforcements really been necessary?

"Thanks for the call, yeah?"

“Of course. Thank you for your assistance. I will see you soon, then.” The phone call ends.

This is a relief. He just needs to wait until Spain arrives, and he can make a strategic retreat to his own, less irritating, charge.

Romano is still on the kitchen floor, quiet now, slumped back against the cupboard, hands on his eyes. And yes, there it is, his curl is drooping now too, much like Italy’s had been.

Germany braces himself and sits down next to Romano, as close as he thinks he can manage, feeling again very uncomfortable. This doesn't seem... right. The Italian brothers do look very much alike, it's true, and seeing Romano like this is almost like seeing Italy there, curled up on the floor, hurt and vulnerable. He does not enjoy the comparison.

As gently as he can manage, he puts the back of his hand to Romano's forehead, gauging temperature. The Italian immediately shrugs him off, scoots away on the tile, opens eyes to glare, but the brief touch had been enough. A high fever indeed.

"Don't touch me."

"You should take an antipyretic."

"Fuck off."

“It’s a pill that will reduce your fever.”

“I-I know what it fucking is!”

"Your fever is very high."

" _Fuck off_."

Germany pours another glass of water, takes out another set of pills. Sets them next to Romano. Waits, arms crossed. Romano doesn't move.

Always so difficult.

The doorbell rings, but before the German can get up to answer it, he hears the door open, and Spain's voice. "Hellooo?"

Finally. Although, on reflection, that was quite a quick arrival for Spain on such short notice.

"In the kitchen, Spain." he says, standing.  He clears his throat again. This is uncomfortable, still.

Spain strides in, smiles at Germany in greeting, says "Thank you for the call!", which gets a nod in response.

Germany watches carefully as Spain kneels down next to Romano on the floor, to see which tactic the man will employ.  

In one smooth motion, the Spaniard simply reaches out, working his arms under the Italian's and wrapping them around his back. Not... quite the tactic Germany had expected. Spain's plan is, apparently, like trying to take care of an about-to-blow grenade by jumping on top of it.

It’s a very private scene. Germany looks away.  

"Don't cry, Roma." he hears Spain say, in a soft voice, and that's it, he shouldn't have overheard that. There are times for a strategic retreat, and this is one of them. Definitely time.  

He clears his throat. Gestures to the pills, the water, the digital thermometer, all sitting on the counter now. Neither Spain nor Romano can see his gesture, he realizes, clears his throat again, and announces, "The medicine is on the table. His fever is very high."

A glance back at them shows Romano's hands now fisted in the back of Spain's shirt, the older man now smoothing the Italian's hair.

"I'll be going now."

He takes the stairs two at a time.

* * *

 

His head fucking aches, all of it. His hair fucking aches, every strand. His eyes... he closes them, tightly, trying to stop the sunshine from the stupid, sunny fucking day from stabbing its way in to play sunshine jamboree inside his aching skull.

He _hates_ being sick. Hates it.

Long ago, long, long ago, when he was very small, he and his brother had gotten sick like this. Cute, little Veneziano had been picked up and tucked into bed the minute Grandpa Rome had noticed. Romano had felt sick too, but he had been more upset about being kept away from his little brother, and had thrown a huge fuss about it, tiny fists shaking and little voice yelling away.

Romano had been put out to play, to avoid disturbing his sick brother. It wasn't out of any kind of malice, it was simply because when the younger Italy was sick or hurt, he was like a sad, soft puppy who called out to be cuddled. When Romano was sick or hurt, he was like an injured cat, fur puffed up and hissing. Like a distressed cat, he did so much puffing up that you couldn't even tell between pain and anger, not unless you could get him to calm down.

So little Romano had wandered by himself, angry and sick and fevered. Kicking the stupid grass and generally being bad tempered. His grandfather hadn't even realized that he, too, had been sick until he was found, later in the day, very ill and almost unresponsive, curled by the olive tree behind their home.

He hate, hate, hates being sick. And now, even worse than that stupid potato bastard, Spain is here. Spain is going to see yet another round of how pathetic his henchman can be. He feels the burn of his already fevered face flushing further as he tries to hold back frustrated, embarrassed tears, unsuccessfully.  

Spain's hands, usually so warm, feel cool against his back.

"Don't cry, Roma." Spain says, soft and gentle in his ear, and he wants to protest, he does, but tears are leaking out. He feels another surge of embarrassment, weakness. It mixes with all the other hurts right now and swirls around behind his eyes.

"The medicine is on the table. His fever is very high." Germany says. Fuck, is that bastard still here? God. _I bet he thinks this is hilarious_. Romano clenches his hands into the fabric of Spain's shirt. It's soft and worn. It smells like tomato plants.

"I'll be going now." Germany's voice again, and finally, quick footsteps signal his departure. Gone to check on his brother, obviously, he is sick and doesn't deserve to be.

Spain is running his fingers through Romano's damp hair. Damp? Sweat-damp, because it is so suffocatingly hot in this sunshine-y kitchen.

"Hey, Romano, Germany's right," Spain says, against his hair.

"Right about what? That bastard, wrecked the kitchen." The man is a walking wall of misery and disgusting potatoes.

Spain pulls away and Romano bites back on a whine. It's just... Spain had been blocking the sun, that's it, and now it was back bright, and so very hot, seeping out the sides of the curtains in angry bolts. He looks down to hide his face from the light, from Spain's eyes.

Spain takes his hand and Romano stills as he puts two pills in the center of his palm. Holds up the glass of water. "Take these."

"No." The response is automatic. Reflexive disagreement. Trying to retain a bit of control.

"Romano, listen to Boss." He's using a voice Romano rarely hears anymore from him; one of command. Normally, he would hold out, be stubborn, get angry. Why does Spain always tell him what to do, huh? But he can't fight that voice now, he hasn't the energy. The pills are taken, swallowed. Even that is exhausting.

"Keep drinking, Roma! Water's good for you, you know."

The Italian shakes his head (a bad idea, pain reverberates). "No," he says, but his voice is hoarse and tight.

"Drink it." Spain says, switching into that tone again. It isn't harsh, merely firm.

The younger man gulps down half the glass before he starts to gag, and trails off into a coughing fit. _Pathetic… you’ll do anything he says, won’t you?_

Spain takes the glass away, rubs his back. The coughing subsides for now.

Romano looks up into Spain's green eyes and feels so incredibly frustrated. He can't even fight off an invader that's in his own bloodstream. Here is Spain to save him again.

Spain brushes his hair away from his ear and deftly takes his temperature. The younger man submits to it without a fight, defeated for the moment. Everything still hurts so much, is so raw. The electronic screen declares his traitorous body to be 39.5 C.

"Right," Spain says, setting the thermometer down, “Up we go!" Again the strangely cool arms wrap around him; this time he is lifted high off the tiles. How _mortifying_. The room shifts, fades a bit. He tries to wiggle out of Spain’s grip but it is futile. His already flushed face feels redder than ever.

“Put me down! I can-“ Romano begins, but a sudden coughing fit cuts him off.

He does ache, every limb and joint is angry and so very weak. It is awful and he is helpless.  

_I hate being sick, make it fucking stop._

* * *

Italy is asleep, peaceful as only he can look. Germany can’t help but smile a bit. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls out another book from his bag of supplies, intending to study it now. It is a small hardcover entitled “Simple Italian Cooking!!”

True, every time so far he has attempted to cook an Italian meal, the results have not been impressive. His last attempt at gnocchi had turned out more like spätzle, somehow. However, with practice he will surely improve.

If not, he also had the menu and phone number of a local restaurant that delivers. Back-up plans are critical as well.

He looks up as he hears a soft tap on the door. It hasn’t been long since his retreat from the kitchen. Setting the cookbook down, he rises to answer the bedroom door, finger already to his lips to impress silence.

Spain’s face appears, his dark brown hair framing a surprisingly determined expression. Romano is in his arms, his worryingly flushed face bright against Spain’s white shirt.

"Hello," he greets, voice cheerful but hushed so as not to disturb either Italy. "Thank you for the call!"

Better you than me. "It was no trouble," Germany answers, voice similarly quiet.

"I have to take care of a few things," Spain says, and to Germany's surprise, he presses Romano forward into his arms. It happens so suddenly that Germany reflexively grabs hold.

"Spain–" he begins to protest, forgetting to keep his voice hushed. Spain puts a finger to his mouth, half-smiling.

“I’ll be back soon. He's taken medicine, his fever should be going down soon… please look out for him for a little bit, okay?"

Romano is clearly ill, because it takes him a few moments to catch up on events. When he does, however, the limp weight in the blond's arms transforms into a tense mess, clearly uncomfortable and angry.

"Spain," he begins again, "I don't think–"

It's like Spain doesn't even hear him. "I will be right back," the Spaniard says, an old, determined tilt to his chin. He turns to leave, and Germany is left standing in the doorway. With Romano. Sick, angry, now twisting Romano.

"Let me go!" Romano yells, and Germany sends an anxious glance at the sleeper on the bed. Luckily, Italy is difficult to wake most of the time. He does not stir.

Germany is quite eager to let go, but doubts Romano should be walking around on his own. He feels the heat radiating off the older Italian and stiffly tightens his grip, marching Romano to the bed and setting him down next to his brother.

As Germany guessed, Romano stops flailing when he is set down. Unwilling to wake Italy, it seems. Romano has some sense, at least.

"What was your temperature?" Germany asks.

Romano covers his eyes with his arm, not saying a word.

Resolve. "If you don't tell me, I'm going to have to take it again."

"….39.5."

That was concerning, both the temperature and the fact that Romano gave the information up so quickly. What had Spain possibly left for…?

Romano isn't moving much now, after the initial struggle. With a fever that high, it was a wonder that he had been able to struggle.

“Spain will be back soon.” Germany says.

“Whatever.”

With nothing else to do, the blond sits down and picks up his cookbook again. Perhaps an Italian soup.

* * *

Veneziano looks peaceful, the rat.

Romano feels quite clearly the burn of helpless, frustrated weakness. He knows he is, well, clumsy, bad-tempered, difficult, rather pathetic; he feels, though, that he can put up a good front most of the time. Not right now, but most of the time, at least.

W-where has Spain gone, anyway? The relief and release he had felt, through the embarrassment, from being held in those arms brought heat to his cheeks now as he remembered. Spain…

If Spain told him to jump off a cliff, he’d say, “No, bastard. Fuck off.”

If Spain insisted, clear-voiced and eyes dark, Romano would break himself on the rocks below. That was how things went, these days. Ever since he had realized–no, even before he had realized…

Pathetic.

* * *

Spain smiles as he finally finds it. Tucked away in the attic, from a chest that had once, long ago, overflowed with gold and rubies. He brushes off a little dust and then brings it to his face, inhaling the scent.

It won’t be good to be gone for much longer. Romano is clearly upset, even Spain can read the atmosphere in that house.

Romano had certainly been a troublesome youth, crying for help with little tasks, lazily shirking his chores; but he actually had grown these days into quite a hard-working guy. Stubborn, prickly, still a bit of a crybaby, but responsible and capable (to a degree). Lovely, too.

With a bit of a guilty wince, Spain tucks up his prize and heads out again. As awful as any illness may be for Romano, it does feel nice to be able to swoop in to the rescue. He isn’t as strong as he used to be, and opportunities like this don’t really come around much anymore.

Hell, more recently Spain has been ill (unemployment, debts, a stagnant world economy), and Romano has always found an excuse to visit and take care of his old Boss.

When he reaches the Italians’ home, the sun is just beginning to set. The entrance light is still on, but the rest of the house remains dark. Spain lets himself in, then makes his way upstairs to North Italy’s bedroom.

He opens the door slowly, then can’t hold back a massive grin.

Veneziano and Romano are tucked into the fluffy bed. Their poses mirror each other, each with one hand curled up under their chin, face to face. So lovely.

Germany is slumped a bit in a chair nearby, but he straightens as Spain enters. He quickly tucks a little book under his arm, obscuring the title before Spain gets a chance to read it, and then nods in quiet greeting. Spain nods back.

Walking smoothly to the bed, Spain lightly presses the back of his hand to Romano’s forehead. Still very warm, though not as alarmingly hot as before. The medicine would’ve taken effect by now.

Green eyes slit open, but Romano appears too exhausted to muster a greeting. The deep smudges under his eyes stand out starkly.

Reaching out, Spain again pulls Romano into his arms, taking care not to jostle the bed and disturb Veneziano. There is no resistance, no protest. Spain feels another pang of guilt for leaving, with Romano in this state…

“Thank you.” he mouths to Germany, making eye contact, smiling, and the German nods again.

 _You like to be the hero, don’t you?_ he thinks to himself, walking down the hall to Romano’s bedroom, fingers curling into the younger man’s sweat-damp hair.

* * *

His headache recedes to the edges, after the medicine. Not entirely gone, but the dim yellow light from this bedside lamp no longer sends stabbing pain beneath his eyes. Deep exhaustion competes with strong anxiety, but at the moment his heavy limbs declare exhaustion the winner.

Spain princess-carried him to his own bedroom, that stupid, gentle bastard. Embarrassing. The taller man even has the audacity now to rest next to him on the mattress, half reclining with one arm propped up under his head.

“How do you feel, Romano? Little better?” The voice is so soft. Fingertips gently tilt his chin up, so Spain can peer into his eyes.

“F-fine!” Jerking his chin away, Romano furiously looks down, inspecting the white sheet. He is still fully dressed in a gray button-down shirt, jeans and socks. Before, he wanted to unbutton it in the unbearable heat (and refrained because stupid Germany was present). Now, the bedroom is cold, the clothes and thin sheet not enough. Is the window open…? Too dark to tell. He grips the sheet in his fist and wills himself warmer.

“Never fear, Boss is here!” A warm smile from Spain, which he can feel through the air, from the tone of his voice alone. Still not looking up.

 _Didn’t I just say I was fine?_ Does the man ever listen? Silly question. It was frustrating how his stupid platitudes _worked_ though, how they made his heart feel.

It was like, over the years, Spain, known famously for being unable to read a situation, can see right through Romano. It is thoroughly annoying. He scowls.

“Where did you go?” Romano asks, shifting focus, trying to tuck the sheet a little tighter around his body without being noticed.

“I needed to get something.” Spain says, seriously. “Sorry to leave you alone for a while, yeah?”

“I was just fine without you,” he insists. “What, did you go to find the antidote to this shit? It’s a cold, moron.” he adds sarcastically, a little hurt despite it all. Romano fights not to shiver. Goosebumps spread across his arms.

“Hah! No, although if I did, I’d definitely share.” Spain says, and Romano reluctantly looks up. That smile is _so_ attractive. He watches Spain reach into an old leather bag near the side of the bed, pull out a spill of deep red fabric. “Are you cold?” he asks, but it doesn’t sound like a question.

Romano’s breath catches. In Spain’s hands…

It is a heavy, slightly faded, crimson cloak. Startled, Romano looks back up into Spain’s eyes. He hasn’t seen this cloak for at least a century, probably more. The last time, it had been covered in rusty-brown bloodstains. It appears clean now.

The Italian forgets he is not supposed to shiver. His limbs shake. Once-clenched teeth begin to chatter.

How could someone that oblivious be so… so… thoughtful?

“I thought that maybe, this would help you feel better!” Spain says with too much cheer, and Romano wants to smack the bastard. He longs to reach out to the warm cloak, tuck it around his shoulders, breathe in that old scent. He does neither.

Spain puts his hand on Romano’s clammy forehead, frowns, then wraps the crimson fabric around the younger man’s shaking shoulders. “Your fever’s still high,” he says seriously, “You’re not going to be able to rest well until it’s broken. Will you let Boss help?”

That ‘Boss’ shit again, ugh. Shivering, clutching the cloak, “I–I don’t n-need anything.”

“Romano.”

“I said I’m fine, dammit!”

“Roma.” he says, voice deep, smile gone. Romano looks to the side, down, then back up to meet serious green. Spain’s cheerfulness, like a switch, is now off.

Romano yields, miserably, predictably. A little relieved. “Okay! Fine. F-fine.”

“Great!” Spain says, cheerfulness back in full force. “You’re so agreeable today.”

Ugh.

“What d-do you want to do?” The cloak is warm, but not enough to stop the shaking. It isn’t time yet for another dose of medicine.

“Trust me.”

* * *

Romano isn’t going to like it, Spain knows. Even sick as he is, there will be some struggle, some silly fight to protect his already-bruised pride. Why can’t Romano accept a little help, from him if no one else? They had known each other for centuries.

In the early days, his hot/cold temperament was really an annoyance (and some days, still is). Spain longed for his henchman to be more like his sweet brother and less like a little shit. Over time (well, over a long, long time), even dense Spain had realized that the bitching was an attempt to cover up a lot of insecurity. The realization had been like bracing yourself to touch a cactus, then suddenly finding that the barbs, though menacing in appearance, are too soft to pierce the skin; harmless, a merely visual defense. Soft. Kind of cute, really.

He’s carrying Romano again. There is a bit of pleasure, of possessiveness, in that, which he can’t really deny. This time, he has the Italian’s chest pressed to his own, head facing back over his shoulder, an intentional choice. He doesn’t want Roma to get upset too early, to see where they’re going.

The Italian brothers’ upstairs bathroom is huge, clean and modern. There is a deep tub in one corner and a wide standing shower in the next. He sets Romano on his feet inside, onto a soft white rug which is covering a slate-gray tiled floor. Spain appreciates the way the smaller man is wrapped in HIS cloak, and a bit of his old conquering spirit blazes forth, pleased. _You look good in my colors._

Romano is quiet, looking down at the carpet, his expression wary, exhausted. As Spain watches he fights not to shiver. Loses.

No resistance yet, though. Maybe this will be easy!

“Will you let me take off your clothes?” he asks, seriously.

“What!? W-what?” Romano’s face blooms hard red, startled, disbelieving. “No! Pervert! What the hell do you think– I–” he takes a deep breath to protest more; coughs and shudders instead.

“It’ll help your fever to take a cool shower,” Spain continues, straight faced, as Romano coughs, “and you’ve sweat through your clothes already, see?”

“Why are you here, then, bastard?” It looks like there might be a fight now. Always a fight, needlessly.

“So you don’t fall over and make everything worse.” Blunt, straightforward. Romano winces. _Let me help you!_ Spain thinks.

There is a long pause.

“I- Fine. Whatever. Do what you want.” The assent is so quiet Spain almost misses it. Romano drops the cloak to the ground, hands balled into fists, looking resolutely down.

Spain is surprised, a little touched. “Thank you, Roma!”

Better get to it, then. He steps onto the white rug as well, leans down to unbutton Romano’s shirt. The shirt slides apart, button by button, then he helps the smaller man pull it off. Ahhhh, if only this were a happier time. Roma’s nipples are puckered from the cold, goosebumps speckled over his arms, and Spain longs to warm him with his hands, his body. Instead, he moves to Romano’s jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping. He helps the Italian climb out of those, too, and the little white socks. Until all that’s left is black underwear. Roma’s hands are tight on the waistband of this last barrier, stalled.

It takes a bit of willpower, but Spain turns his attention to the shower, adjusting the taps and turning on the spray; this water should be a little below normal body temperature. He waits until the shower is just right, then turns back to Romano, purposefully keeping his eyes on Roma’s face (which, he admits to himself, IS difficult).

Romano is cold, exhausted, miserable, and naked. Despite it all, still lovely. His feet don’t look steady, which is expected. Spain has seen Romano tip over a row of bookshelves with only a broom, as a child. There’s no way his clumsy henchman can get through a shower in this state without wrecking the entire bathroom and himself.

Without concern for modestly, Spain smoothly pulls off his own t-shirt, slides out of the rest of his clothing (Romano quickly looks away, fidgets). They’ll have to go in together, clearly. Romano is extremely clumsy when healthy and sober, it’s not worth risking a slip. Spain wishes this were occurring in happier circumstances, though.

Putting an arm under Romano’s shoulders is much more intimate like this, skin to skin. With odd silence and zero bickering, Spain leads Romano into the shower, shuts the glass door. The spray is a little cool on the Spaniard’s skin, not unpleasant, but from the way Romano stiffens and scrunches his eyes shut, it is freezing on a fever.

“Fuck!” is Romano’s almost involuntary cry, followed by another, louder, “FUCK!”

He’s still shivering. Spain’s heart aches. It would be so easy to reach out his other arm, give Roma someone warm to hold. Would he allow…?

Spain watches cold water drip from Romano’s hair curl to run down a shaking shoulder.

He can’t hold back anymore, in the face of Romano’s obvious misery. Spain wraps both arms around Romano’s naked back, pulling the Italian close and tucking a wet head under his chin. It feels wonderful.

Romano’s probably not going to talk to him for weeks, after this intrusion, once he’s healthy again. Months, maybe. For now, the Italian is merely quiet, breathing as the shivering slowly subsides.

 _It should be like this_. Spain thinks, and knows they aren’t there yet, might not ever be.

Spain reaches for a washcloth, then gently runs it over Romano’s smooth back. For the fever to break, they’ll have to stand in the shower for some time. He presses the wet cloth to Romano’s hot forehead, disturbing brown bangs, and waits.

* * *

Big, gentle hands run a soft towel over his skin. Down his arms. Down his back. Over the curve of his ass.

After burning heat and freezing cold, everything fades in and out, sharp and raw. The water is turned off, shower complete.

 _Spain_ he thinks, and kicks himself for being so pathetic. That had been… Spain had… Romano isn’t ready to process what just happened.

Spain pulls a soft shirt over his head, then easily guides him into the armholes, tucks the shirt down over his bare stomach and bare…  everything. The shirt is big and Romano recognizes it as Spain’s sleep shirt. There is the impulse to struggle, pull down the shirt more, call Spain out for being the pervert he is, but he’s tired and numb and does nothing.

They head back to the bedroom together, Romano and his unsteady legs manage to make it onto the bed.

“Feeling better, Roma?” Spain asks, breaking the long silence. They hadn’t spoken since the shower began. The Spaniard lays on the bed too, propping his head up on his bent arm, peering at Romano.  

"I'm fine," he repeats roughly, disgusted by how weak his voice sounds. It's like every single muscle in his body is loose. Spain had come here, taken care of his weak self. It had felt wonderful. Humiliation, strong and sinking, complicates the feeling.

The bottle of pills is on the bedside. Spain selects another dose of medicine and Romano takes it without comment when offered.

"Everything will be better in no time at all, you'll see," the other man assures, "I know you hate being sick."  

"Shut up." It is a mumble, indistinct, then guilt and gratitude force out an even quieter, “Thank you.”

Spain hears him, and his grin feels bright as the sun. “It’s no trouble, yeah?” Spain says, draping the red cloak over him.

It’s warm. Safe. He’s asleep, a real sleep, in moments.

* * *

Sunlight streams through the kitchen window. It is late morning, now. Spain stands by the stove, hair rumpled, heating milk in a small saucepan. The kitchen is still in a state of semi-disaster from yesterday, but the Italian brothers’ house has a sleek red espresso machine and there is still enough room to make café con leche.

Romano’s still asleep upstairs. Spain wonders how Romano will feel about last night, how he’ll react in the light of day.

The milk is near boiling. Spain pours it into a mug, then adds the hot coffee.

Voices drift down from the stairs outside the kitchen. It’s easy to make them out as Germany and Italy.

“...but I always sleep naked!”

“There are different protocols for when you are alone than when other people are in your bedroom.” The response sounds strained.

“That’s silly, Germany, you’re not other people–“ Italy enters the room and sees Spain, beams out a bright and cheerful, “Oh, good morning!“

“Good morning!” Spain beams right back. “I see Germany took great care of you. You look so healthy, now!”

“He took such good care of me! Germany’s the best. He’s so strong, and-“

Germany coughs, cutting him off with a stiff, “It was no trouble.”

Is that… a bit of a flush on Germany’s cheeks? How delightful these two are. Spain laughs.

“See, Germany, Spain isn’t wearing a shirt, and that’s fine, isn’t it?” Italy blinks up at the German, projecting innocence, radiating mischief. Spain laughs again.

“That’s because Romano is wearing my shirt.” Spain says truthfully, taking a sip of coffee. He is only wearing soft tomato-print pajama shorts, at the moment. Germany makes a slight choked sound, which he attempts to cover with another cough.

“That’s good, then, big brother Spain.” Italy smiles, and his eyes seem to shine a little brighter. “How is he?”

“Still asleep,” Spain replies, “but we’ll see how he feels when he wakes up!”

Germany looks a little rough around the edges, still wearing his clothing from the day before. “Thank you for your assistance,” he says gruffly. Not many are up to the challenge of a sick Romano.

“No worries. I’ve been looking after him for a long time.” Another sip of coffee, and then, because he can’t resist teasing the stoic German, he adds, “Romano likes to sleep naked too.”

“See!” Italy’s grin is a little evil!

“I– that. Is.” Germany grinds out, “cultural differences.”

“Would you like some coffee?” Spain offers. There is a little warm milk left in the pan, it would be easy to put together a latte.

“No, thank you,” Germany declines, then turns his attention to Italy who is shifting through the cupboards of the still-messy kitchen.

“Suit yourself.” Spain drains the last of the mug, savoring the rich, dark coffee, the light sweetness of the milk. A beautiful balance.

“Seeya!” he says to the pair as he leaves the kitchen. Germany and Italy are pulling out a box of day-old pastries for breakfast, and the younger Italy waves cheerily over his shoulder at Spain.

Time to face the music, then.

—-

Romano wakes up alone in his bed. The seemingly bottomless exhaustion from last night has faded in the morning light to merely deep tiredness. No headache anymore. His body still aches, but it’s manageable. He sits up, pulling off Spain’s deep red cloak and taking time to examine it in the light. The bloodstains really have washed out of the heavy fabric. It isn’t even very faded. He takes a paranoid glance around the room, confirming no one else is around, then lifts it to his face, inhales its scent. How can an aroma like that linger through the centuries?

Spain had saved him, again. He had been thoroughly coddled. It had been painful, embarrassing, and still, somehow, heartwarming.

I’m only wearing Spain’s shirt, he remembers. It has tiny, smiling red tomatoes printed all over a cream background. Hundreds of little tomatoes grin up at him from the fabric as he remembers also that there is nothing underneath the shirt.

A shower. With Spain. Touching him. Good thing it had been an icy cold shower, and he had been so very ill.

Never had an illness knocked him out this completely, been so terrifyingly strong. It was scary, all right? Damn it, he wasn’t human, but those kind of sudden shocks could straight out KILL countries! He could’ve faded away! Then there’d be just one Italy whom everyone loved, instead of two, of whom only one person–

What am I going to say to him? he wonders. He can easily chat with lovely ladies, even hold regular conversations with his annoying little brother, but when it really matters, when it really, really matters…

The door slides open, admitting the morning sun and Spain. Romano focuses instantly on the matching little tomatoes on Spain’s pajama shorts.

“Good morning!” Spain smiles widely.

Romano drops the cloak, flushing as he realizes he had been still holding it to his face like an idiot.

“Morning,” he mumbles. lowering his gaze to the white sheets of his bed.

He can feel Spain approach, but resolutely doesn’t look up as Spain presses a hand to his forehead in a now-familiar gesture.

“Much better,” Spain sounds satisfied. “Boss knew just what to do!”

Ugh.

“Are you hungry?” Spain continues.

“No.” The thought of food makes Romano feel a little nauseous.

“I can make breakfast. When was the last time you ate?” When had it been? Whatever.

“ _No_.” That isn’t even the right response to Spain’s question, but Romano can’t deal right now. He sneaks a glance up to see Spain shrug his rejection off, unaffected. Then, the Spaniard turns and walks back out of his bedroom.

!?

“Damn it!” Romano yells. Where is he going? Food? He runs embarrassed fingers over the red fabric still in his lap, then sits up to fold the heavy garment into a lumpy rectangle and set it on a nightstand, irritated at how disappointed it makes him feel to put it away. At least Spain won’t catch him being so stupid again, now.

He’s half expecting Spain with churros when the door opens again.

He is half-right. It is Spain. With a Spanish guitar. Grinning ear to ear. Still shirtless.

Romano sputters. How and why!?

“How about some entertainment?” Spain is all smiles, strumming a few chords. “I’ll cheer you right up!”

* * *

Dinner is… tense.

His best culinary efforts hadn’t made the mark, it’s clear. _Gnocchi ai funghi_ had been listed in the “very simple” section of the cookbook, but somehow his rendition became spätzle with mushrooms, as he knew it would. Germany sighs deeply, again.

Next to the bowl of not-quite-gnocchi on the red and white checkered tablecloth, there is a bowl of robust wurst. When in doubt, go with what you know, right?

Germany glances at Spain, sitting across from him at the table (now with shirt). He hadn’t even tried the Italian food route. There is a dish of unmistakably-Spanish paella on the table, rounding out their mismatched meal.

Romano is glaring at him, eating the paella and only the paella.

“This is really great, Germany!” Italy says from his left, looking up at the German through long eyelashes, “I’ve never had gnocchi that tastes like this before.”

Romano mutters something offensive.

“Thank you.” Germany takes a bite of sausage and tries resolutely to not rise to the bait. “So, Spain,” he begins, trying to change the topic to something different from his Italian cooking skills (or lack thereof), “where did you have to go with such urgency last night?”

Spain takes a bite of paella before answering, “Back home for a bit!”

Romano’s scowl increases.

“You had to leave to get your pajamas, right?” Italy smiles, then helpfully adds, “Brother’s still wearing them.”

“That and a few other things,” Spain smiles back. “Anything for my precious henchman when he’s sick!”

He had also brought a guitar, Germany knows well. It had been frustrating; just as he was about to fall asleep after a long night, the guitar serenade had began. And continued. And _continued._

“You’re so fucking stupid.” Romano says, directed at Spain or his brother or both. He IS still wearing Spain’s shirt over light pajama shorts, and is flushing red enough to match the tomato-print.

Germany hadn’t known that they were… like this. They are each wearing half of the same pajama set. That plus the desperate hug in the kitchen, overheard guitar love songs (the lyrics had been quite easy to understand), Romano’s deep flush, Spain’s smile… Germany doesn’t consider himself a Master of the Heart or anything, but this is obvious. They are together in _that_ way. Glancing at Italy, it’s almost enough to make him feel a little… jealous? He covers his own slight blush with another determined bite of the mushroom spätzle (and fights back a wince).

“I should have called you sooner when I heard he was ill, Spain.” Germany offers, although he had called as soon as he realized the severity of it. “I wasn’t aware that you two were dating.”

Romano drops his fork, and it clatters against his plate, too-loud in the sudden quiet.

“Congratulations!” Italy cheers, eyes a little wide with... surprise? _Is it because I noticed?_ Germany wonders, a little offended. Their relationship had been pretty clear today.

“Brother, why didn’t you tell me?” Italy adds, with a bit of a whine. Wait. Certainly he had known…?

“We’re not dating,” Spain says, clearly.

“But, you–” If they weren’t, then there is an entire sturdy boot in his mouth, he realizes.

There is a sudden scraping sound as Romano pushes his chair back roughly. He stomps out of the kitchen, and Germany can hear his hasty retreat up the stairs.

“Thanks for the meal, yeah? Excuse me,” Spain says after a beat, heading out of the kitchen after the angry Italian.

He’s left staring, a bit shocked. Maybe he should retreat too. Not towards Romano. Preferably in the opposite direction from Romano.

Italy puts a small hand over his tight fist, and he lets out a deep breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

“I didn’t know…”

“It’s okay, Germany. People make that mistake all the time!”

“They appeared to be very close to each other. I assumed incorrectly.”

“They are very close to each other,” Italy says, putting his other hand on top of Germany’s tense fist as well. “Big Brother Spain and my brother _are_ in love with each other. They’re just not dating.”

“That seems very foolish.”

Italy smiles a different sort of smile, one he can’t place, looking into Germany’s eyes.

“Just because you’re in love with each other, it doesn’t mean it’s easy to be together.”

* * *

Romano’s bedroom door is closed, locked.

“Roma,” Spain says.

“Go away, you bastard!” There is a tight note in his voice, signaling clear as day that Romano is fighting back tears again and losing horribly.

“Roma. Open the door.” His voice is firm.

“Go away! It’s nothing! It’s stupid! I-I’m fine, you saved me, okay!? I’m just t-tired!”

Romano cries easily. It’s just the way he is built, emotions wound up tight and brittle.

Germany was certainly not the first to make that earlier mistake. France gave him suggestive comments all the time, over the long years, and Spain always shook his head. Yes, dating Romano would be lovely, but their history adds layers of complication and Romano has never seemed interested in _that_ kind of relationship.

“Why are you crying?” Spain asks through the closed door, truly baffled.

“I’m not!” He is.

“Are you hurt? Is your fever back?”

There’s no verbal response from the bedroom. Just stomping and sounds that could be the Italian punching pillows.

If it was the old days, he’d have been strong enough to break this flimsy wooden door. Now, brute strength isn’t an option. He tries the knob again anyway, fruitlessly.

“Roma.” He says, pleading. Why is Romano crying like this? They had been eating a meal together, everything had seemed alright until… “Are you crying because I said we’re not dating? We’re not, though.”

“You’re an idiot!” Romano yells back, voice hoarse.

“Yeah.” Spain knows Romano is right. He’s bad at this kind of thing.

Romano’s health had steadily improved before dinner. There were still dark circles underneath his eyes, but the fever had been extinguished. Spain doesn’t think it’s illness that’s causing these tears, though.

“Is there someone you want to date?” he asks, mouth working ahead of his brain. That could be it.

“Just drop it, okay!?” the Italian’s response is extremely quick.

If Roma was interested in someone, Spain probably knew them too. There are only so many countries, and seriously dating a human really isn’t Romano’s style.

“Do they not want to date you?” Spain knows he isn’t asking the right questions but doesn’t know how to adjust. His chest feels tight. Who would it be, then? Romano doesn’t seem the type for declaring love first, though. “I’m sure if you speak honestly with them–”

“I do _not_ need advice from _you!”_

“Yeah.” That’s probably true.

Spain sighs and presses his forehead to the door, defeated. Who could it be? Spain can’t read situations well, but he can mostly read Romano, and the tone of his voice and the hitch in his breath mean the younger man’s desperately trying to hide some truth that’s close to the surface. Who, then?

“Do you…” Spain pauses, his mouth moving faster than his brain again, “Do you want to date _me_ , Roma?”

Only silence. Pure and true.  

Spain feels his world fracture and reassemble itself around that truth.

“Romano.” His voice is different. “Open the door.”

\---

This is the miserable cherry on top of a shit cake. It’s all so stupid!

If he had just kept his cool, continued eating, ignored the potato bastard, maybe everything would still be okay. So stupid!

_Now you’re crying. Again.That’s really helping! Great! Good job! FANTASTIC!_

It’s just, he is so exhausted. It’s so hard to pretend he’s not hopelessly in l-love–

“Is there someone you want to date?” Spain asks.

_You, idiot._

“I’m sure if you speak honestly with them–”

“I do _not_ need advice from _you!”_ Romano can’t help but yell back. Thank God that bastard isn’t as strong as he used to be because that door would’ve been ludicrously easy for him to press his way through. It’s clear he wants to.

“Yeah.” Spain sounds tired.

 _Great job, yelling at the person who’s just trying to look out for you._ Romano wipes the tears from his flushed face, frustration making his movements rough. He tries to breathe slowly.

“Do you…” Something in Spain’s voice sounds different. Romano isn’t ready when he continues, “Do you want to date _me_ , Roma?”

He can’t even breathe. W-what?

“Romano.” Spain says, and it’s heavy. Romano sucks in a breath, then another. “Open the door.”

There isn’t a choice. Hand shaking, the lock makes a soft click as it disengages.

It’s unlocked. He takes a step forward, rethinks, steps back.

The curtains are still closed, the bedroom stuffy and dark. As the door slides open, warm hallway light halos Spain’s dark brown hair and spills across the soft carpet.

It’s unreal, this feeling, the expression on Spain’s face. He hadn’t ever imagined this far, this dreamlike moment. He looks down, away, unable to meet his destruction. It’s clear Spain _knows_.

The shock of Spain’s hand on his chin makes him flinch, but the touch is insistent. Standing on the edge of something, Romano looks up into green eyes and steps off, willingly crashes onto the rocks below.

“Hey, Roma. There’s no need for that,” Spain says. He thumbs a few of the tears off Romano’s still-red face, his touch soft. Breathing in and out, in and out, slowly, it takes concentration. “How long?”

Romano shuts his eyes at the question, but the answer is obvious. He swallows, admits it. “Forever, y-you idiot.”

He hears Spain exhale. His eyes are still closed. This is it.

The laughter is a shock. Not mocking, warm. Loud. Spain’s hand drops away from his face, shifts to curl softly into the hair at the nape of his neck. “You, too?”

Romano opens his eyes, throat tight with hope. “Don’t laugh!”

“Sorry, Roma.” Spain’s smiling. His chest feels too tight. “Why didn’t you say something, yeah?”

“Why didn’t you!?” Honestly, Spain is an idiot. H-how could he have…?

“I’m stupid at these things, you know.” That’s true. Romano’s heart thuds in his chest, still disbelieving. “So, you want to date? Me?”

“I–” Why’s he making him say it out loud, damn it? “If you w-want…”

“I do.” Spain says, eyes dark, beautiful. Warmth slips down his spine, tension releases, because this is more than he had ever hoped for, right here. “What about you? What do you want?”

Spain’s hand is in his hair and it isn’t fair, it isn’t. The words are drawn out of him. They come out quiet, breathy. “I want you.”

“So cute! SO CUTE!” Spain’s arms wrap around him, warm, sudden, suffocating. He leans in closer, tilting down for an exuberant kiss. It’s so fast, Romano reaches out frantic hands, stops the kiss in its tracks, cold fingers on Spain’s lips, blushing down to the tips of his toes. His fingers are kissed instead. It’s still electric. Spain laughs again, muffled now. His expression is much too soppy and fond.

It’s too much. He gives in to this, too. Romano’s hands move from his lips to cup the sides of Spain’s face, and he presses forward in a clumsy, closed-mouth kiss, passionate and needy. He can feel Spain’s smile through the kiss, and it feels right. He smiles back into it.

* * *

This clumsy kiss is ridiculous. So sweet. Spain adjusts his hold, so one arm wraps around the Italian’s back, hand resting on a thin hip, the other tilting Romano’s head back into the kiss. Romano’s so tense but he always eventually yields, and that’s sweet, too.

“All you had to do is ask,” Spain says, pulling away a little, taking in the delightful sight of dazed eyes, just-kissed lips. Feels pride, possessiveness that he is the cause of that look.

“Stupid. It’s not that easy.”

“Mmmm, I guess not.” What would have happened then? He pictures Romano, younger, serious, declaring his feelings to his old self, clumsy. No, he wouldn’t have been able to gasp the full meaning, the words beneath the words. They aren’t the same people that they used to be.

The bedroom is still dark, sun fully set, curtains still closed. Spain holds Romano a little tighter, shifts to tuck his head under his chin.

They can’t stay like this forever, but it feels nice. “Are you done crying?” he teases.

“Shut up!” It’s muffled, though, without heat.

“Haah, I think you scared Germany, before.” He rubs a hand down Romano’s back.

“Idiot deserved it. That ‘pasta’ was unforgivable.”

Romano hadn’t even tasted the stuff. Neither had Spain, though. Well, it looked like the frustrated man had really _tried_ , and that counts for something.

“Hey, Roma,” he begins. “We should probably thank him, you know.”

That’s enough for Romano to pull away (but not too far), look up into his eyes, incredulous. “ _Why?_ ”

“Well, it’s all thanks to him that we’re together right now.” Spain will certainly thank him for being the catalyst for this happiness, however unwittingly it had been. “You didn’t call me, before, with the fever. You should know you can always call me when you’re scared.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Romano lies. He looks a little more thoughtful, though.

“If he hadn’t misunderstood, would we be here right now?” Spain leans in and kisses him on the nose, just to see it scrunch up.

“Whatever.” He looks to the side, eyes half closed. “I don’t want to talk about fucking _Germany_ right now.”

“Oooh?” Spain teases, tone deep, “Something else you’d rather be doing?” He really wants to bring back that earlier dazed expression. Slow, deliberate, Spain leans in for a deeper kiss this time. Romano lets him take control of the kiss, mouth yielding open, and he likes that too.

Romano isn’t a conquest, but this kiss is surely a surrender.

* * *

The kitchen is a still a disaster, and Germany sighs as he surveys the wasteland. That pile of dishes is much too high, ready to topple again. Dishes first, then a good, thorough scrubbing of all surfaces. The windows could use a good wipe down too. The floor should be mopped last.

Plan decided, Germany reaches for the yellow rubber gloves. They’re a little (well, a lot) small on his hands, the opening too tiny for his muscular arms. He gets them over his fingers okay, but the rubber bunches up around his wrists. It will have to do.

He is reaching for the soap when he hears footsteps coming down the stairs. Italy…? No, it is Spain and Romano.

Spain strides into the kitchen with a wide grin, looking immensely pleased about something. Germany can’t fashion what, though. Romano follows close behind, scowling less than he had been earlier. He stops a little behind Spain.

“Hello, Germany!” the Spaniard says. “ Aren’t those gloves a little small?”

“Hello.” Obviously. “Yes.”

This is awkward. Should he apologize for his earlier inappropriate comment? Would it be better to, perhaps, never mention it again?

Spain laughs, still sunny. “Hand them over. I’ll take care of this mess, okay? We owe you.”

Germany isn’t following. “Owe me?”

“Yeah!” Spain reaches for his hands and Germany takes off the gloves, passes them over, a little mystified.

Romano shuffles forward, coming out of Spain’s shadow. Germany reminds himself that there is no need to retreat, even though he really wants to. “Germany,” Romano begins, and that’s the first time he can remember the other country using his actual name, “Uh– damn it.” The curse is more familiar. Romano looks up at him, meets his eyes.

“Go on!” Spain encourages, putting on the gloves. They’re small on him too. Must be made for Italians only.

“Thank you,” Romano says to Germany, sincerely. Blushing pink.

What!? Germany is stiff, confused.

“Yes, thank you!” Spain adds, then ruffles Romano’s hair with his now-gloved hand.

“You’re welcome.” He responds reflexively, then clears his throat. “Um. Why am I being thanked?”

“We’re dating!” At Spain’s declaration, Romano blushes deeper and looks… pleased.

“Oh.” Germany tries to catch up on events. So, now, they were… it makes sense. Huh. “Congratulations,” he says, and means it.

“If not for you, Roma here might not have ever confessed to me!” Spain strikes a dramatic pose, gloved hand on his own cheek.

“Stupid! That’s not how it went!” Romano smacks his arm.

“No?”

They’re tiring, but obviously made for each other. Germany is a (not well-concealed) romantic at heart. “I’m glad my misstep led to some happiness for you both.”

“Thank you, really.” Spain insists.

Germany nods, accepting the thanks, then begins to back out of the kitchen. He isn’t used to this type of interaction with them.

“Romano, you’re still tired, yeah? Go sit in the chair.” Spain smiles over, expression fond, and Romano sits without a fuss. “Boss’ll clean up this huge mess.”

Just before he’s out of earshot, he hears Romano call his name. “Germany. About. My brother.” The words sound like they’re taking a lot of willpower to force out, but the Italian’s expression is serious.

“Italy?” Germany asks, bewildered.

“Yes. That brother.” Romano growls, then takes a deep breath, clearing the anger from his voice as best he can, gaze still steady. “Talk to him, honestly, about y-your feelings.”

That obviously cost him a lot. Germany is a little touched. “Thank you. I. I will.”

Germany retreats then, back up the stairs. Thoughtful.

As he walks, he begins to formulate his plan. Step one, locate Italy.

**Author's Note:**

> I write Spain with a lot of sentence-enders such as “yeah?” This is an attempt to replicate the almost floaty way he speaks in Japanese (not just the accent). There isn’t really an English equivalent I’m satisfied with, but that’s how I’ve tried to convey it. TLDR; Spain talks weird.
> 
> 38.2C = 100.76F (Italy). 39.5C = 103.1F (Romano). 
> 
> Paella is usually a lunch meal in Spain, according to my research, and generally only tourists eat it at night. Lunch is the biggest meal of the day, there. I chose to write it as “Spain made this for Romano because he knew he’d like it anyway (and missed lunch) <3,” so they’re having it for dinner. APOLOGIES TO YOU SPANISH PEOPLE WHO MIGHT NOTICE THIS, I AM SORRY.


End file.
